


A World on Its Side

by patricia_von_arundel



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, More characters will likely show up later, Original Character(s), Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pregnancy, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23621338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patricia_von_arundel/pseuds/patricia_von_arundel
Summary: It began with a simple mission: to rescue the Imperial children from beneath the palace in Enbarr. But when Jeralt brings home with him the sole survivor - Edelgard - he sets in motion a chain of events that will forever alter the course of the war to come in Fódlan. Soon, Edelgard and Byleth will find themselves joined by unlikely allies... and by ghosts from a past neither knew existed.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ionius IX (Fire Emblem) & Patricia (Fire Emblem), Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Patricia
Comments: 44
Kudos: 149





	1. Prologue: A Temporary Sanctuary; Strange Smiles

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the amazing zaaschila on Tumblr - go check them out! 
> 
> An anon on Tumblr sent this What-If scenario to me: What if: Jeralt's mercenaries was in actuality not a mere mercenary group, but one with more organization and it has its own squad section that acted in the shadows like spies or infiltrator. What if: they received a request that ended up with them secretly raided the place where El and her siblings were experimented on? (I'll leave the number of survivors to you) What if: they rescued the kids and disguised them, raising them along with Byleth in the merc group?
> 
> I opted to keep Jeralt as a mercenary, and then, well... 
> 
> This was initially just going to be Edelgard being rescued through meeting Byleth and training as a mercenary, but then I wondered what would happen if they somehow eventually wound up at the monastery anyway, and then it became... well, I don’t want to spoil everything, but there’s more. And then it was the usual “well, shit” moment of realizing I didn’t have a drabble, I had this whole, stupid *story*. With inconvenient nonsense like a *plot*. 
> 
> ...Bother. 
> 
> So what I wanted to try to do in this prologue, to keep it as short as possible (ha!), was write it in more a... well, not a comic-book format, obviously, but as if it was, or perhaps a serialized pulp kind of story, since the whole request for “what-if” scenarios came from my love of the Marvel “What If?” comics I read as a kid. Not a whole lot of introspection or exposition in here, just action and movement from one scene to the next. No room for lollygagging in the mind. 
> 
> I doubt Edelgard was still being experimented on this late in her life, but I needed to make it late for the sake of that damned aforementioned plot. You can probably tell at the beginning that, before the plot wormed its way in, she was initially written to seem younger than seventeen. I haven’t changed that (yet). I'll see what kind of feedback I get. After all, as vulnerable as she is, she may have mentally regressed more than a little bit. 
> 
> The rest of the story will scrap this format for a more traditional chapter-by-chapter set-up with lots of introspection and character development: what I live for, honestly. So don't think it won't show up eventually. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. This is not my usual style of writing at all, so it was kind of fun to just write the exciting parts. Even if the *real* excitement won’t begin until later.

__

_Ring them bells, St. Catherine_

_From the top of the room_

_Ring them from the fortress_

_For the lilies that bloom_

_Oh the lines are long -_

_And the fighting is strong -_

_And they're breaking down the distance_

_Between right_

_And wrong._

**~ "Ring Them Bells," Bob Dylan**

* * *

She tensed at the sound of footsteps, biting back a whimper - even that would hurt. She was too weak to lift her head, time now a blur of slippery consciousness. The footsteps were the first thing she had heard in... in what seemed a very long time. She could no longer say how long. There was just herself - and the silence. 

_They’re all dead._

_I’m dying, too. Then the rats will eat me._

The rats were gone, for now. Sated by the flesh of the others - the tortured, mutilated remains of those who had been her brothers and sisters, left to rot around her. She no longer opened her eyes. She told herself she had grown accustomed to the smell. 

Perhaps she _wanted_ to die. To be quiet and still, as they were - to feel no more pain. No more fighting the shackles. No more screaming beneath the needles, the knives, the magic. No more agony sent coursing through her with every frantic beat of her heart. 

She lived, though. Whatever she might long for - she lived. 

And they were coming for her again. 

She hugged her arms around herself, curling up as small and tight as the chains would allow, despite the pain of movement - it was almost involuntary. She had begged, at the start. Begged them not to hurt her. Begged for the others to be alright. Begged for her father to save her. But it did nothing. So now, she lay silent, and still, and alone. 

The steps were coming closer now, echoing in the stone corridor. But something curious about them - they seemed almost... hesitant?

_Father?_

Her breath caught, hope like a taper within her scarred, aching chest. But just as quickly, it was gone again: the voice she heard was not her father - nor any she had ever heard before. 

“The lock,” it said - deep and rough, even in hardly more than a whisper. “Be quick about it. We don’t have much time.”

“I know, I _know_.” A woman’s voice now, but just as rough. It made her think of the kitchen girls gossiping under their breath, their accents so harsh it sometimes seemed almost a language of its own. “Shut up. Lemme work.”

The soft clattering of metal pushed slowly, carefully against metal - an even softer click - then the familiar scrape as the door separated from its thick iron base. 

“Wait here,” the first voice said. 

“You’re the boss.”

A candle - he had a candle. How long had it been since she’d seen natural light? The ones who kept them here used strange, glowing orbs, set high against the walls, casting only faint, greenish light to the floor below. She wanted to stare at that bright little flame, despite the pain against her eyes. But it was too much. She looked at the man instead. 

It was hard to make out details of his features, candle or not, but there was clearly a harshness to them that matched his voice. Sharp eyes, scarred face. 

_Scars._

She opened her mouth, but no sound could force its way past the rough, swollen surface of her throat. She didn’t know him, but he wasn’t one of _them_ , and that was enough to relight that taper, deep inside her. 

Those tentative steps again - he held the candle out, casting it around the cavernous room, empty of all but chains... and corpses. 

And her. 

“What the _hell?_ ” He was breathing shallowly, through his mouth, and suddenly she was very aware that the stench _was_ still there. A trickle of the nausea she had felt the first time she smelled it, realized what it was, once more twisted through her belly. Like her whimper, she fought it back - dry-heaving had more than once made her pass out from the pain. If she passed out, he might think she was dead, too. She would be left. 

_Please!_ But still, she could force out no words. 

“They sure didn’t mention _this_...” the man said. She didn’t look down to see what he saw. She didn’t want to see, truly, what they had become: the sisters who had braided flowers into her hair and showed her how to knock apples from the trees. The brothers who had called her silly names and sometimes read her stories. That was not all there had been, but it seemed, now, all she could remember: the childhood things she had not known to treasure. Things that could never come again. Things that no matter how many times she told herself to forget, her mind seemed simply incapable. 

“What is it?” the woman asked, _sotto voce_ , from the doorway. 

“Pretty sure it’s the Hresvelg kids. But they’re all long - wait.”

Sudden light, full in her eyes, and she gasped and shied back. Bolts of agony - in her head. In what remained of the rest of her. 

When the opened her eyes again, he was crouching before her, holding the candle carefully aside. His own eyes were brown - and softer, friendlier, than any she had seen for a long, long time. 

She felt her lip tremble, but resisted the urge to cry. Crying hurt, too. And besides - like begging, it did nothing at all. 

“Hey,” the man said. “What’s your name?”

For the first time in days - weeks - months - she found her voice again: 

“Edelgard.”

* * *

“What’ll you do with her, Jeralt?”

 _Jeralt_ \- the first time she had learned the man’s name. They had made a makeshift sling for her across his back; she was too weak to walk, much less to ride, and so was strapped in a blanket like some swaddled infant. She might have cared more if all of her focus was not on staying conscious - even at a slow pace, every step the horse took sent nauseating agony pulsing through her. 

The man - Jeralt - seemed to consider for awhile, then sighed heavily. “I was going to bring them back to Remire if they needed some patching up before I figured it all out, so I guess I’ll take her home with me. Maybe some company her own age will open the kid up a little bit.” 

“ _If_ this one survives. She’s in pretty bad shape, Jeralt.”

“She can hear you, you know. Anyway - just another reason to keep her with me, at least for now. It might be hard to hide 11 children just reappearing, but one? Simple accident. Poison made to look like some common ailment. Anyone who kills 10 children - 10 _Imperial_ children, no less - doesn’t seem likely to care about killing one more. I’ll figure out what to do when she’s gotten some of her strength back.”

It was night - Edelgard could see the outlines of trees against the sky, and the stars above them. The world smelled of wet leaves, the earth, a clean chill that spoke of autumn. Despite her discomfort, she couldn’t ignore it - couldn’t stop a frisson of... of almost _hope_. 

“Still back there?”

“Yes,” she said.

At some point, she slept.

* * *

She woke to blue eyes, far too close to her own. 

Her first instinct was to scramble away - but even attempting to push back with her arms brought a cry of pain she could do nothing to suppress. She hunched her shoulders and closed her eyes once more, breathing in harsh gasps, until the sharpest of the agony subsided, leaving the familiar, dull ache that she had come to know so well. 

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound particularly sorry.” The words out before she could stop them, somehow defensive of her own childish behavior - but it was true. She heard no apology in that voice. 

“Huh?”

Edelgard finally forced her eyes open again. The others, thankfully, had retreated - instead of looming over her, they now watched from beside the bed. They belonged to a girl about her own age, perhaps a little older - though without a current date, Edelgard had long since lost track of how old she now was. The girl had messy hair that matched those blue eyes and well-patched clothing. She was still staring quite unabashedly. 

“My father said he’d be back soon,” she said - as if already dismissing her attempt at an apology. 

“Your father?”

“Jeralt. He said you might be thirsty when you woke up. No food yet. Are you thirsty?”

Non-sequiturs. It took Edelgard a moment - thinking was hard enough through the haze of pain. Was she thirsty? She had found herself, at times, lapping at puddles on the floor, desperate, telling herself it was moisture seeping through stone, and nothing more. 

Silent, painful attempts to speak, the night of her rescue...

“Yes,” she said - trying to hide the sudden, urgent realization of _need_. “Please.”

“I have to be careful.” Another strange, contextless statement - then the girl was up and gone, right out the open door to the outside. Edelgard could see the grass there, and the dark trunks of trees just beyond. 

For the first time, she wondered exactly where she was. She looked around - a small cottage, perhaps? No more than a cabin? There was a semblance of two rooms, but no complete wall or doorway between them. She seemed to be in the smaller of the two. There was little to see - rough, chinked-wood walls; beams across the low ceiling; one bed besides her own, and what looked like a pallet on the floor between them. The next room was only in partial view: a fireplace, a table and two chairs, cured meat and dried vegetables hanging from ropes strung across the walls. 

She had never been anywhere like this. But it wasn’t the hell beneath the palace in Enbarr - sunlight streamed through the narrow window next to her bed, and across the threshold of the open door on the other side of the room. She could feel the warmth; hold one weak hand up and watch it cast a shadow across the quilt around her. That was what she must focus on. 

Sunlight. 

_Freedom._

The strange girl returned, now with a bowl and a ladle. She stopped short of the bed, and seemed to consider for a moment, looking towards the other room. “Do you want a cup? I _think_ at least one is clean.”

Edelgard shook her head. Best to try not to think about it all just now. Best just to pretend that of course she knew how to drink from a ladle. Best to ignore the protests of her swollen throat as she swallowed - and to ignore as well the water that spilled down her chin, her chest. It was cold. 

“Slowly,” the girl said. If she noticed the mess Edelgard was making, she said nothing. 

* * *

Cleaning her wounds was like yet another round on those tables, strapped down and screaming. Except... it wasn’t like that at all. Somehow. Despite the pain. 

“Do I need to have her hold you down?” Jeralt asked, nodding his head towards the strange girl - Byleth. Her name was Byleth. “This is going to hurt like pure hell.”

“No!” Too frantic - Edelgard stuffed it back: the terror of it. Her wrists and ankles were still raw, where the chains had bitten and rubbed away the skin. “I... I can stay still.”

The washing wasn’t so bad - it hurt, and a lot, but he was careful and quick. She could finally see the full extent of what had been done to her: her legs, her arms, and most of all her chest were a tangled web of scars and puffy, red-and-purple half-healed incisions. She could hardly stand to even look at them. 

No one here had asked what they meant. She wasn’t going to tell them. She might not ever tell anyone. Anyone who knew was already dead - or would be very soon. 

Worse than the washing was the brown glass bottle - spirits. Strong ones; just the smell made her eyes water. “Sure you can stay still?” he asked the first time. 

She nodded. She was not sure at all. But she _would_. 

He took her hand, extending her arm out, over the floor. There was a tub there. His fingers were gentle, but held her firmly. 

“Won’t take long,” he said. 

She held her breath. 

On her other side - another hand slid into hers. She looked over, startled. 

Byleth. Her eyes met Edelgard’s. She was almost... smiling?

The alcohol was like acid against her swollen, abused skin. Her back arched, and she fought desperately the urge to twist away - and to scream. Still, her mouth opened, a silent cry, and she felt the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Each of her legs. Her other arm. A rag, wiping agony against her chest. By the end, she was shaking with voiceless sobs, her body trembling all over. 

Byleth never let go, except to move to her other side, even after Jeralt said, “There we go, kid. I’m sorry about that.”

Edelgard kept her eyes closed, as if that did any good against the tears seeping from them. She felt scoured - flayed open, every nerve set ablaze. 

“He does the same to me.” Byleth’s monotone voice - but did Edelgard imagine the hand around hers squeezed, just slightly? “When I get hurt on missions. I took a sword to the back of my shoulder last summer, and he did that twice a day for two months. He does it to himself, too. You should hear him curse.”

It was by far the most Edelgard had ever heard her say at one time. But what caught her attention was - “Missions?”

“Mercenary missions.”

“You’re... mercenaries? You are? I mean - you, not just your father?”

“Yeah. For... awhile. I don’t remember exactly how long. Do you want some soup? You can try having some food now. But only a little bit at a time.”

Even when Byleth’s hand left hers, Edelgard could feel the warmth of it against her palm. 

A blur of weeks - she still slept often, and drank water almost ravenously. Food, even soup, was more difficult to reacquaint herself with; her stomach seemed to twist and clench, rejecting it. 

“Take what you can,” Jeralt said. “Just take what you can.”

Her wounds were healing - leaving raised, jagged scars, tattoos she did not need, would never need, to remember the place from whence they came. But there were no more baths of spirits, at least; just water now, every morning. It almost felt good: to be clean. To be cared for. 

As weeks became months, Jeralt encouraged her to begin walking again, to rebuild the muscle that had wasted away. Her legs and arms were so skeletal, fragile, she had almost grown afraid to even attempt to use them. 

But Byleth said, “Here,” and held out an arm. 

Edelgard hesitated - then placed a hand upon it. 

She would have been embarrassed by how tightly she clung, if she wasn’t focusing the entirety of her attention on her trembling, stiff, knock-kneed legs. She understood than how a foal must feel, stumbling to its feet for the first time after birth. 

Outside the window, she could see that winter had arrived: the trees bare, the sky low and grey. They must be well north of Enbarr - there was snow on the ground, more than she had seen since her time spent in the Kingdom. But nothing gave any greater clue as to where they might be. She hadn’t asked - she wasn’t sure she truly wanted to know. Not yet. 

When walking grew easier, Jeralt had her lift books or small pieces of firewood, to strengthen her arms. Byleth did the same, though surely it wasn’t necessary - even so young, Byleth was already all lean, hard muscle. Edelgard found herself watching how it moved, though she couldn’t say why. Envy, perhaps?

She didn’t understand many of her emotions, now. She kept them to herself. But she liked Byleth’s company, curious as it was, and she liked that odd little almost-smile Byleth sometimes gave her. 

She also watched, through the window, as Byleth trained at weapons: sometimes with Jeralt, more often alone. Jeralt was gone quite a lot - missions? - but Byleth stayed behind. She practiced most often with a sword, but occasionally with the axe used for cutting wood, or a long, sharpened stick in place of a proper lance. 

As the snow melted and daffodils began to peek through the crust of frozen earth, Edelgard felt almost whole again - or as whole as she was now likely to ever be. She still ached sometimes, but it was dull - bearable. She went outside, and could walk the perimeter of the little cottage six or seven times before beginning to feel exhausted. She woke in the morning eager for breakfast, plain as the fare on offer truly was. 

But with all of this came clearer mind - including the nagging reminder of the vow she had sworn, beneath the palace, as her family lay dying around her. A vow she would keep, even if it ultimately meant her death as well. The time had come - the time for true preparation to begin. 

The first almost spring-like day, warm and breezy - that was when she finally asked Byleth, “Will you teach me how to use weapons, as you do?”

Byleth lowered the makeshift lance, for a moment looking almost confused. “Why?”

“Because... because I'd like to learn. And it would continue to... to build my strength up.” She should have prepared an excuse in advance, instead of stammering all over herself. 

But Byleth, as usual, seemed not to notice. “Okay,” she said. “What would you like to start with?”

And so Edelgard began, slowly, to prepare for the future.

To prepare for vengeance.

* * *

It was late spring when she finally confessed. It was only two months until the Garland Moon, and her birthday seemed as appropriate a time as any to leave. She could not put this off any longer - it was time to accept that. 

But she also could not stand the thought of leaving Byleth without warning. Especially since...

“Kid?” Jeralt’s voice, late in the night - soft, but Edelgard no longer slept deeply or soundly, and woke at the slightest noise. “Hey - this again?”

In the meager moonlight seeping between the closed curtains, Edelgard could see Jeralt standing beside the pallet where Byleth now slept, half-bent over her. Byleth was _on_ the pallet, just as she should have been. But she was sitting up, and her eyes were open. Open wide. The meager moonlight seeping through the curtains seemed to catch in them, so that their deep blue appeared almost green. 

It was not the first time it had happened - and if anything, the frequency of it was increasing. Each time, it lasted only a few minutes, then Byleth would begin to stir and murmur, as if waking from perfectly normal sleep. She saw a girl, she said - but never elaborated, and Jeralt did not ask, and Edelgard did not know if it was her place to do so, despite her curiosity... and her concern. 

She liked Byleth. She liked Byleth... in ways, and for reasons, she did not understand. That hand holding hers. An arm to help her stand again. Strange, wordless smiles. For the better part of a year now, Byleth had been here, a constant companion, helping, serving, teaching. 

And now, when Byleth might be the one in need, Edelgard was leaving. She had to. But she owed Byleth at least an attempt at explanation of _why_.

“I would like to show you something,” Edelgard finally said one morning, as they were finishing breakfast. Just the two of them, Jeralt gone again; Edelgard was not ready to face both of them, though she suspected Jeralt already knew much of what she was going to say. 

“Okay.” Byleth cleared away the table, accepting the request as easily as always. “Where?”

“Outside.”

It felt almost like summer - hot, the air still and heavy. Perhaps that was why Edelgard could feel the sticky discomfort of perspiration against her hands as she lifted the now-familiar old axe they used for practice. 

She had never allowed herself to do this before, yet she knew herself capable of it: gathering all the power now contained within her. 

The power of two Crests. 

She drew the axe back, and hurled it before she could second guess herself. 

Capable. Yes - the strength they had whispered of with such hungry need...

The axe flew, a blur of silvery-blue, and sliced completely through the slender trunks of two young trees before stopping, with a reverberating _thunk,_ deep inside another. 

Edelgard left it there and turned to Byleth, speaking the words before she could fight them back: “I have to leave. And soon. There... there is something I must do.”

Byleth just stared at her for what seemed a long time, her expression almost... concerned? It was hard to say. It was always hard to say. 

“I know who you are,” she finally said. “And I know where my father found you. That’s why we came here - because it was safe for the Hresvelg children, if they needed to be kept hidden. But you were the only one who lived.”

Edelgard looked down, afraid her expression would offer more than she was yet prepared to give. “Yes.” At least that part she wouldn’t have to try to explain. How long had Byleth known? “They were doing... experiments. They wanted...” She took a deep breath, and forced her head back up, her eyes meeting Byleth’s. “They wanted a weapon.”

She told it all: the experiments. The deaths. The dungeons. She told it before the begging voice in the back of her mind could gain control. By the end, she was looking down once more: at her arms, crossed tightly against her chest. 

At the scars. 

“Two months until you go looking for them?” Byleth asked, when Edelgard was finally silent once more. 

“Yes. Two months and a bit.”

“Go get the axe.”

Edelgard looked up then, surprised - it sounded almost like an _order_. But Byleth stared right back - then turned and left. Walked into the house without another word. 

Edelgard blinked. 

Then, she did as told. It took three tries to jerk the axe from the tree. She didn’t want to use her Crests again. Even with no one watching, she felt self-conscious now. Vulnerable and exposed. She bit her lip and took a deep breath before turning back. 

Byleth had gotten a charred remnant of log from the fireplace, and used it to draw a large X on a tree - a far bigger one than those Edelgard had severed, and far closer to the clearing where they trained. 

“Can you hit that?”

Again, Edelgard was surprised. She looked at the tree, then back to Byleth. “I... I suppose so?”

But the axe flew far to the left of the target. Edelgard did her best to keep her expression neutral, but there was no way to hide the flush that rose in her cheeks. “I... perhaps I am tired. My apologies.”

Byleth cocked her head, considering, apparently, the untouched target. “That’s what we should focus on,” she said. “Before you leave. Your aim. We can do that in two months.”

But they didn’t have two months.

* * *

Edelgard was half-awake in bed, drowsy, blanket pulled to her face. Jeralt was packing to leave again, and quiet as he was, it had been enough to keep her from sleep. Byleth was in the other room, preparing food for his journey. 

An ordinary evening - until came the desperate, frantic pounding at the door. 

Edelgard sat bolt upright, sleep forgotten, her heart pounding at the sudden noise and the accompanying, baseless, terrified thought: _They’ve found me_. She pulled the blanket to her shoulders, like a child after a nightmare. Byleth was standing in the partition between the two rooms, and Edelgard tried to focus on her - bright, alert eyes. Her hands by her side... but one held a knife. 

It was Jeralt who opened the door. 

Edelgard tensed. Blood pounding in her ears - she could hardly understand what they were saying. Something about an attack...?

 _It’s just boys. Just three boys. Nothing dangerous about them._ Dressed in uniform, though they did not appear to be military. Something familiar about it, though - had she seen such uniforms before? When she was younger, maybe?

One of them - the tallest among them, his unkempt blond hair falling across his face - was scanning the room, as the other two talked to Jeralt. 

Jeralt sighed. “Guess I’ll have to leave a little later than planned. Kid, you -”

The blond boy pushed past him - his eyes had locked on Edelgard. She met his gaze, letting the blanket drop, and lifted her chin. _A boy. Not dangerous._

Jeralt tried to grab his arm. Missed. “Hey -!”

Byleth had the knife up. 

The boy ignored them. And now Edelgard could see the shock in his expression. 

He stopped a few feet from the bed. His eyes were huge, his cheeks flushed. 

He spoke one word - one word that chilled her more deeply than the coldest winter day. 

“... _El?_ ”


	2. Part 1: Prisoners of Fortune

**Imperial Year 1180**

_Keep a close eye on that one_ , they said. 

_Don’t trust what you see. This animal is feral. Rabid._

Anaxi had taken it all very seriously, at the start. Checking upon the hour, every hour. Keeping logs of all that he observed, exactly how much food was consumed at each meal, the length of sleep cycles. He asked the questions his training had told him to ask, despite receiving no more response than cold, bright eyes briefly meeting his own. By the book, just as he had tried so hard to do in his magic training. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that it worked no better here than it had there. Maybe he just wasn’t a by-the-book kind of man.

He had been assured that this was a truly plum position, especially for one on such a tenuous second chance as he. He was in charge of guarding no ordinary prisoner, kept only to provide a means to gain influence and information - this one was somehow... different. And had once _escaped_ , almost a year previously, killing two guards to do so. (This information had weighed heavily on Anaxi’s mind, in the earliest days of his posting. Now, he questioned the truth of it, honestly - it was rumored there had been accomplices. This one hardly seemed to have the will to move, much less kill.)

A plum position, yes. A very _special_ position. 

So why did he feel as if once more, existence had chosen him as the butt of some nasty, inescapable joke?

All he’d ever wanted was to be noticed - to be something more than just another cog in an army that seemed less a well-oiled machine and more some mighty automaton collapsed to ruin, pilfered for scrap and beginning to rust. The children of Shambhala were _taught_ of their own great legacy - descendants of those who had brought down _gods!_ \- but Anaxi had very early found himself questioning if any of that greatness truly remained. What was the value of legacy if no one lived up to it? 

As a naïve child, he had dreamed of being the one to do it - to rise up, and reclaim that glory his ancestors had called their own. False gods once more reigned across a beastly, primitive world, worshiped by vermin. _He_ could bring them down. _He_ could become the rebirth of true history. An end to stagnation! Words with _meaning_ , more than parroting ideals, proverbs of steel left without bite!

But it was not to be, of course - beyond boyhood, he remained devoted to such a cause, but knew the war would never be his to lead. Instead, he watched as his dreamt-of reclamation nonetheless began, plans unfurling first as rumor, but soon as proud promises that the end of that world of primitive creatures and nefarious false deities would soon, finally, be at an end. 

Anaxi was then in military training - the perfect place for lapping up every drip of information. _Soon_ , the gossip all seemed to whisper. _Soon, soon, soon_. 

Then they called for more mages - training for any willing to do what was necessary for the greater good. And once more, Anaxi felt a calling. There were moles on the surface now. Infiltrating. Risking everything. But they could do nothing without _magic_. 

Anaxi was accepted. 

Half a year later, he was dismissed. 

There was no dramatic story to tell, no grand plot against his future - he simply proved to be, in a word, _lousy_ at magic. Juggling words, his hands, and the direction of power, all at the same time, turned out to be more than he was able to handle. 

A blow - and one that, at the time, had seemed likely to leave unfading bruises to his pride. He had believed in himself - believed he truly had something to give for the glorious future of this woefully maligned land. 

But eventually he realized... He _still_ believed it. He just had to figure out the true capacity by which he might show it. It wasn’t magic or leadership - so be it. But whatever it was, he would search until he found it. Deciding he needed a position that allowed time for rumination on the matter, and speaking to some of his former tutors in spellwork, he had received his current security position: monitoring the most valuable of prisoners. The advantage of it was that they were also the least likely to escape - far darker means than wood and iron kept them in their cells. 

This one, though - this one was kept apart from the others. He could _see_ the dark magic, writhing, powerful, that worked its way across the entrance to the tiny, bare room. There was a bed in there, a wooden bucket, cleaned twice daily (thankfully not by him), a small basin of water...

And the prisoner. 

Face covered by a cowl, though he did not know if that was by order, or choice. Rarely moving - sitting on the edge of that narrow bed, most of the time, looking down. Lean, in those dark fabrics: more a wraith than a feral animal. Still and silent. And those cold, bright eyes...

He no longer bothered to do hourly checks - just the occasional one, and he scribbled “no unusual activity” in the log for each required entry at the end of each tedious session. He spent most of his time cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall and trying not to doze off. He wasn’t supposed to engage beyond official questions, but he really wished the prisoner would talk, even just a little bit. Babble or something, like some of the prisoners in the regular cells, where he had been before. Some sound, _any_ sound; something besides his own bored sighs. 

He told himself he was accustomed to the silence by now. It wasn’t true. 

Still, he remained. Considering the future. Maybe he would see that outside world of beasts, when it had been taken. Maybe there was still a way he could assist in the taking. Maybe - 

He jerked his head from the wall, sat up straighter. 

A noise. Around the corner. Echoing - a cry, quickly silenced. A muffled thud. 

The prisoner’s head turned. 

That sharp face, beneath the cowl -

It was _smiling_.

* * *

**Imperial Year 1159**

For most of the journey, it had rained. Like the clouds were following them - a dark thought, but an amusing one. And rather appropriate - she felt a little cloudy still herself, though far stormier than the steady spring showers she watched through the window. 

The distance was not great, but the entire journey was across craggy hill and mountain, and the rain did nothing to improve the conditions of the roads. Even calling them “roads” was being generous - they were often hardly more than muddy goat paths. The carriage made slow, steady, laborious way along them, a crawl that made what should have been a 10-hour journey become instead a day and a half. She spent the short night at the inn tossing and turning, wishing desperately that this part could be over with - that she could just get there, and be done with it. 

Be done with _him_. 

The pompous, self-righteous picture of perfect piety sitting across from her in the carriage. 

“I’m perfectly capable of getting there myself,” she had said - multiple times. 

“Of course you are. But it wouldn’t do for a young lady for your stature to arrive at such a place alone. Besides, I would like to pay my respects to the Goddess at her own eternal resting place.”

 _Of your stature_ \- she should have laughed every time he said it. As if she didn’t know _exactly_ why he wanted to accompany her. It had less to do with the Goddess or any “eternal resting place,” and far more to do with hoping to kiss the holy rump of the Archbishop and any powerful noble rumps that happened to be there besides. 

_She_ had wanted to go to Fhirdiad, to study sorcery. But no - no, to him, that was not good enough. Not after he had been denied his own place, over a decade before, their mother citing the stiff cost. Where the gold had been found now, she did not know. Perhaps the Goddess herself thought to give her a year’s respite from pious social-climbers, and had vomited money down upon them. 

She smiled at the mental image, then quickly forced it away - but not quickly enough. “There’s a happier expression,” he said. “From what I’ve heard, it will soon be hard to hide that happiness. You’ll like it here - it is the heart of all Fódlan.”

She had her doubts, but said only, “Perhaps.”

The sun was trying to find its way out as they made the final, winding climb - he’d probably see that as some kind of sign. There were other carriages now, a few open wagons, and one small party on horseback. She envied the last; they had probably made the best time of any of those arriving. 

Arriving at Garreg Mach Monastery. 

She had been here once before, though she did not remember it. There had been border skirmishes that threatened to turn deadly, and her mother had brought her here for shelter until the situation was resolved. She’d been only two or three at the time. 

Looking up at it now, she wondered how impossibly enormous it had appeared to a child so young. Even now, it was imposing... almost monstrous. What message was intended? If she asked, she was certain the answer would be “sanctuary.” But she felt no warmth, no comfort. She felt _threat_. 

...Which even she had to admit to herself was ridiculous. Certainly, she did not view the Church of Seiros with the same blind devotion as some, but this was no more than a series of buildings. Large, looming buildings, but still just stone and wood for all that. The worst that might happen here was admonishment for her abysmal bow skills. No need to be over-imaginative. 

How often had she been told that? 

A lot. 

They were stopped at the gates, and a knight with a long scroll of paper opened the door, bowing his head as he did so. “New student?”

She opened her mouth, but was not given a chance to speak: “Yes - my sister.”

She bristled, but only until the knight looked at her then, not him. She appreciated that. “Your name?”

She sat up a little straighter, head held high. “Anselma von Arundel.”

Whatever happened later...

This was how it began.

* * *

Her room in the dormitory was larger than her room at home - significantly so. For all the value of the Arundel lands compared to much of the rest of Adrestia, they might as well have been in Faerghus (and practically were), and the manor house reflected as much: low and long, with a thatched roof and small rooms built to retain as much heat as possible through long, cold, damp winters. 

The room at the Officers Academy was high-ceilinged, bright, airy. She wasn’t about to admit it to Volkhard, but this offered a very positive first impression of a school she had fought tooth and nail not to have to attend. 

She left the two trunks of her things beside the bed - she could unpack them later. For now, while Volkhard was off kissing rings and the toes of Saints’ statues, it seemed the perfect opportunity to come to know her new surroundings a bit better, before the welcome dinner to be held that evening. 

(That, she was actually looking forward to - because it would offer her her first glimpse of her house leader. Alger von Vestra, cousin of the recently-recognized new marquis - even in the remote northwest of Adrestia, the Vestra family was... notorious. Infamous. Volkhard’s pursed-lip displeasure at the choice had alone been enough to leave Anselma intrigued.)

She closed and locked the door to her room - something she would have to try to grow accustomed to doing, though slipping her very own key in her pocket made her feel foolishly adult - and gave her new home a longer look around than she had coming in. Walls, and more walls. Paths, and more paths. Grass. A lot of grass. All very well-kept, attractive, but - 

_I’m going to get lost. Often._

Perhaps forever, and she could become the Eternal Lost Soul of Garreg Mach, a tale told to frighten new students and see that they were in their rooms come curfew. Better than a year here trying to woo some noble so she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life offering _utterly_ sincere prayers under Volkhard’s thumb. Though lost souls probably couldn’t visit Enbarr, something she rather wanted to do, as long as she was this close. She’d never been anywhere bigger than the hamlets and villages scattered across the Arundel lands, and most of those had more goats than people. 

From her left, a sudden crash - loud and close enough to make her jump. She whirled, startled, to find a girl of about her own age. The girl’s eyes were wide, and her face was flushed a brighter color than her rather-bright hair. She was already in uniform - Anselma only noticed because the collar was incorrectly fastened, and had come askew. At her feet, the source of the crash: a pile of large books that had to stack almost as tall as she was. 

Their eyes met, and the girl’s face grew even brighter. “I... I’m sorry. I tripped on the edge of the path. None of them hit you, did they?” She held up a hand, almost as if offering something. “I can heal you. I mean... if you need it.” She looked almost hopelessly eager - like a naughty puppy trying to wag its tail to avoid trouble. 

“They didn’t hit me. I’m fine.”

The girl’s hand dropped, and so did her shoulders. “Oh. Good. But... I’m still sorry. And sorry if it’s rude, but I... I need to pick these up. Quickly.” She gathered them with almost frantic hurry, hugging them to her chest with one arm in nearly as much disarray as they had been in on the ground. 

They were just going to go everywhere again if she tried to get them all like that. “May I help?”

For a moment, the girl’s eyes met hers once more. “You... you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. All my things are already in my room.”

“I... it would be easier. If you’re _sure_ you don’t mind. I would... very much appreciate it.”

“Not at all.” She got the rest before the girl could attempt any more herself, then followed her to her room - “Hey, it’s right next to mine!”

“Really?” The girl was fumbling for her key, her books in danger of going everywhere yet again. Finally, she managed to shove the door open with her shoulder. “But your clothes... I thought they said the nobles mostly take second-floor rooms? That’s... what someone told me, anyway. When I was applying.” She dumped the books on her bed, so Anselma did the same. “ _Are_ you a noble?”

She laughed - she couldn’t help it. “Theoretically. More like Lady of the Goats. I’m Anselma von Arundel, and I’d bet my last 100 gold the name means absolutely nothing to you.”

For the first time, the girl smiled. She really had a very eye-catching face, especially those heavy-lidded blue eyes. “I don’t think I should take that bet. I don’t have 100 gold. I’m Cornelia Arnim.”

“Cornelia Arnim, who likes to read.”

“Well... not _just_... I like to read, but -” She stopped abruptly, and turned to stare out the window. Her eyes once more went wide. “I... my apologies. I have to go. Right now. The wagon is hired, and I have to get the rest of my stuff - if the driver’s not back to Enbarr by sunset, he charges for another day. I’m sorry, I have to -”

“I’ll help,” Anselma said - and at the door, took off running. The gates were the one thing she knew how to find, and she’d been cramped in a carriage for nearly two days. “Come on, hurry! We can get it all!”

Cornelia’s voice, calling after her: “Are we allowed to run?!”

“Nobody said we couldn’t!”

Behind her, she could hear the quickening footfalls, hurrying to catch up.

* * *

He had never had the richest lands, nor the richest life. Nonetheless, Volkhard von Arundel had always felt blessed by the Goddess. Truly blessed. He had never lacked for food, or shelter, or clothing. Losing his parents - his father when he was 12, to an injury from a horse kick; his mother when he was 16, to an inflammation of the lungs - had been hard, and attempting to raise Anselma, only 5 years old when he became her guardian, even harder. He had become lord and parent, and in doing so forewent his lifelong goal - something he had never truly abandoned until then - of being the first Arundel to attend the Officers Academy. 

Still, he felt he had risen well to one of the Goddess’ accompanying challenges - as lord, he had managed to arrange for increased sales of meats, furs, and cheeses across the border, into Faerghus. It not only allowed for fresher goods to be sold, it also meant less travel and higher prices - much of Faerghus still highly reliant on imported goods to feed and clothe its population, and paying a premium to do so - which in turn led, for the first time Volkhard knew of in recorded history, to significantly greater profit across the soil-poor Arundel lands. Anselma might complain of all the sheep and goats, but he suspected she would change her tune soon enough, when she truly understood all that those animals had brought her. 

But that was the other challenge of the Goddess: Anselma. 

Here, he feared his plans had not fared so well. Maybe it was losing her parents so young, and then being allowed too much indulgence and freedom as he focused most of his attention on their livelihood. She had had a nursemaid, of course, and later there were several young scholars willing to take low-paid positions in exchange for a recommendation to carry along with them at departure, but perhaps none of them had been firm enough, disciplined enough, for one such as Anselma. She had been pushing boundaries - if not outright leaping over them - her entire life, and showed little inclination to attempt to stop doing so even now. She spoke her mind even when her thoughts were highly unorthodox - even vulgar - then five minutes later refused to speak at all. She had a self-righteous pride the Saints themselves would find trying - and Volkhard was himself certainly no saint. 

She accused him of sending her to Officers Academy solely to see his own dreams fulfilled, and perhaps there _was_ an element of that. Certainly, the offer from the Central Church to pay for her time here had come as an unexpected, very pleasant surprise, after he had so long ago seen his own dream of attending dashed. 

But there was also the hope that it might instill in Anselma more discipline - and, perhaps, a modicum of piety. She did not yet recognize the value of such things in arranging a successful marriage - nor, as yet, did she seem to recognize the value of a successful marriage in and of itself. It was a sign from the Goddess, surely: she had rewarded him as a faithful servant, for his increased donations each year to the church as his own wealth slowly grew, and now she had sent a sign she did not intend to forget him... nor even his wayward younger sister, difficult though she might be to reach. 

He had never had the opportunity to visit Garreg Mach; when their mother had fled here with young Anselma, he had been 14 years old, and already lord in name if not in practice: he remained behind. This visit was not one he intended to squander, and he allowed Anselma to shoo him from her new dormitory with little protest. There were things he must do. 

The cathedral itself: that was where he must go first. One of the oldest structures in Fódlan, and - as he could confirm for himself now, staring up at it with his own awe-struck eyes - very likely the most beautiful. It was a far cry from the squat little stone church he had attended all his life. He could only imagine the glory of seeing this place filled, hundreds of rapturous voices rising even above the rafters, all the way to the heavens and the ears of the Goddess herself... Back at home, it was usually only himself, Anselma (if she hadn’t woken up early enough to disappear first), and a handful of the oldest inhabitants of the nearly villages who attended worship. Much - too much - of Adrestia had seen the dissolution of the Southern Church as an excuse to turn their backs on the Goddess. 

The money in his pocket - he’d brought it for just this visit to the cathedral. More than he could truly afford to give, but it wasn’t only for himself - it was also for Anselma, and her future, and the future of the Arundel name. Perhaps a husband in Enbarr, children to cure some of Anselma’s high-spiritedness, and security for the family beyond wools sold to Fhirdiad and the frigid borderlands to its north: that would be all and more Volkhard would ever ask of the Goddess. His final gift, then, would be himself. Should Anselma bear a son to take over the family lands, he intended to retire here, and dedicate the rest of his life to the Goddess as a monk.

(Yes, of course, some would call his desire for a male heir antiquated and ridiculous - Anselma likely among them. But he had no qualms about being viewed as old-fashioned, and as long as he was alive and serving as Lord Arundel, he would pick an heir as _he_ saw fit.)

It felt satisfying, dropping the gold into the collection basket beside the entrance. He walked inside slowly, breathing deep of hushed, rarefied air. This was where the Archbishop herself came to pray. This was where the Goddess dwelled. This was where the Saints might watch over Fódlan, with all their holy wisdom. 

He could feel them all. 

The space was enormous - cavernous. His steps echoed now, as did many of the prayers offered from the pews. The nave was more filled than he would have expected - and many of those praying or sitting in silent contemplation were in the uniforms of students. Some with their families, but just as many were alone - here of their own volition? If so, it must bode well for their potential influence on Anselma’s faith... or lack thereof. 

He allowed himself, very briefly, to have a seat and a prayer of his own: a prayer that he was making the right decision. A prayer that this was truly the will of the Goddess. 

Then, he went to the left. Down the aisle. 

Just as the letter had said - a courtyard. A knight stood in the doorway. He ducked into a quick bow. “My apologies - this area is currently off limits.”

“My name is Volkhard von Arundel.” The words, too, came from the letter. “I am expected.” 

Like magic - the knight stepped wordlessly aside. 

The man outside had his back turned, looking out over the wall at the world spread before them, so very, very far below. He was wearing robes and the distinctive cloth tri-cornered hat of a monk. 

“You came, then, Lord Arundel,” he said - and only then turned to duck his head in greeting. “Well met. The Archbishop will be pleased at your willingness to come even this far.”

“I would do anything the Archbishop asked of me. As I have already put into writing. I would gladly do so again, and seal it with my own hand.”

The monk almost smiled - he had a youthful face, but something of his expression spoke of greater years. “I think your presence here is assurance enough. Your sister - she has also arrived?”

“Yes. Though she is probably more eager to nose around than to begin her studies.”

The monk laughed at that. Very briefly. “She is not the first such student, nor will she be the last. Worry not - there are eyes everywhere at Garreg Mach, especially as new students arrive. She will be kept to approved areas. For her own safety, of course.” He glanced around, as if to make certain none of those eyes he spoke of watched _them_. “Now - about the... small matter... I alluded to in my letters. Dangerous to all of the Church - and all of the people of Fódlan. You remember all of this, I presume?”

“Of course.” The letter - the second he had received - had come with instructions to burn it... and a chit for the full cost of Anselma’s time at the Officers Academy. From any other source, he would have of course immediately smelled a rat, but from the Church itself - “Whatever I can do to assist you in this matter, I give you my word, I will do it.”

A curt nod. “My thanks, Lord Arundel. Come, then - let us speak of his more privately. And perhaps over a cup of tea? I fear all I need to tell you may take quite some time...”

* * *

**Imperial Year 1180**

Anaxi scrambled to his feet, reaching for the shortsword at his belt. He could feel himself shaking - and he could feel the cold eyes of the prisoner still, staring at him through all that crackling, surging magic. 

_I probably just fell asleep. Fell asleep, and had one of those dreams that wake you right back up, like the one where you miss a step and your foot jerks in real life._

Then why had the prisoner been looking at him? Why that _smile?_

He could hear something new now. It sounded like... _breathing._

Panting, eager breathing. 

Just around the corner. 

On the surface world, beastly creatures stalked their prey. They made a game of it - toying. Sending eyes wide, flesh quivering, hearts racing. _Fear_ \- they feasted upon it as surely as upon muscle and marrow. 

He was prey. 

Cold sweat, beading along his skin. 

He drew his sword. As silently as he could. As if whatever lurked around the corner did not already know he was there. 

He wished now, once more, for magic. 

The heavy breathing had slowed. There was no other sound. His own breath had long caught. 

Then -

A slow, sliding, heavy step closer. 

Another.

He held the sword up. Breathing, suddenly, in harsh, erratic gasps. “Halt!” His voice shook, too - and suddenly, irrationally, he wondered if the prisoner would laugh at him. “None are permitted here!”

“Oh?” The voice was deep... sonorous... and very close. “I do not recall asking.”

“I have a weapon!”

“... _Glorious._ ”

He was grabbed by a blur of movement and pain, the shortsword falling from his hand as he was slammed, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, into the cold stone of the wall behind him. 

But colder still was the blade that speared his middle. 

He heard his own desperate, choked groan. 

Eyes. Colder even than the prisoner’s. 

Then the blade was gone - jerked mercilessly from his belly - and he was released, collapsing in a heap on the floor. 

Blood. Hot. It was so hot.

Something to give for the glorious future of Shambhala...

His life.

It was hard to focus - darkness dancing around his eyes. Inside his head. 

The last thing he saw: the one who had killed him. Walking through that crackling wall of spellwork as if it was no more than cobwebs. 

And the prisoner’s eyes, watching him die. 


End file.
